


the waking nightmare of being dead

by joeschmuckatelli



Category: Homestuck
Genre: But whatever, It's not really major character death, it's close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeschmuckatelli/pseuds/joeschmuckatelli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally written as a bit of exposition for an rp blog I run, I liked the finished product enough and I figure it can stand alone. The only real thing to know before reading is that the Summoner is dead, and while in his dream bubbles has been interacting with various other trolls through tumblr. At this point in time, he can't remember how he died. This is his quest to find that out.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. ====> RUFIOH: TRY TO MAKE SENSE OF THIS SHIT.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a bit of exposition for an rp blog I run, I liked the finished product enough and I figure it can stand alone. The only real thing to know before reading is that the Summoner is dead, and while in his dream bubbles has been interacting with various other trolls through tumblr. At this point in time, he can't remember how he died. This is his quest to find that out.

So that’s exactly what you do. 

You power down your husktop and push the chair under the desk, standing and stretching as a lengthy yawn passes over your lips. Tinkerbull flutters over; a reluctant smile comes forth, and you ruffle the little tuft of fur on the top of his head. He chirps, and you can practically hear the little “<3” in his nonsensical, chirruping noises. It’s fairly endearing. 

You take your time putting things away in your hive; since it’s just a memory, if it is one, there probably isn’t much point to doing such a thing, but it helps calm your frayed nerves. Being dead was hard enough as it is, but trying to remember your death? That was only helping the greys that were beginning to try and sprout from your scalp. (Stupid premature grey hair.)

Things are now put into their proper place and your hive is generally tidier; you even cleaned up the puke from your earlier incident. All this talk of death and memories and general after life drama had pretty much sobered you up, much to your dismay. Being completely an utterly shit faced meant putting off stuff like this. Responsibilities and all that. Idly you wish you’d had more opportunities to do stuff like that when you were alive— shove aside important things for a night of leisure, alcohol, and talking with friends. You sigh. Too late now.

Your wings are practically buzzing on your back, the anxiety building to the point of nearly making you nauseous again. C’mon Rufs, get a hold of yourself. You got this. 

You shuffle over to the hidden door on the side of your hive. Gingerly you unlatch the lock, swinging it open. Tinkerbull flits forward, tilting his head; you know that expression well enough. He’s concerned. Again, a smile plays across your lips, albeit one that is fairly bittersweet. 

“No worries, pops. I’ll be back… I promise.” 

You wish you could believe your own words. 

A tentative foot steps forward, followed by another. You slip out onto the small wooden platform that is buried amongst a network of branches and leaves, that of which is hidden from those on the ground. It’s a useful place to take off from. 

Your wings flutter, once, twice, three, four times. The muscles almost feel foreign to you, so incredibly stiff from disuse; a grin dances across your lips, cracking your expression of somber dread— nothing could get you more pumped up than flying. 

When your knees bend you inhale through your nose, sharp and quick. Knees straighten and legs push off as the air leaves your lungs. 

Your wings start off a little too eager to fly, flapping wildly without any sort of a rhythm. Then, once you’re a good three or four feet from the platform, they falter. Shit. Shit shit shit you should have warmed up before jumping out of a fucking tree Rufioh what the fuck were you thinki—

They jump start again, buzzing along at their normal pace, and you come to a rather abrupt halt, hovering just a couple inches over the platform. Okay. Progress. Progress was definitely being made. 

A quick systems check (or in other words you flitting up and down a bit to check and make sure your wings weren't fubar) confirms that everything seems to be working normally. The grin broadens. 

A feral cry tears from your lips as you rocket into the sky, launching yourself into the world you’d become to comfortable with. Maybe this was why you’d been so grumpy the last couple of days— you hadn’t been out flying like you usually did when there were no rallies or riots to lead and slash or attend.

The clouds slip through your fingers, nothing more than the ephemeral murmurings of the sky’s collected, cooled tears; eventually they would gather, swirl, amass into a terrifying cumulonimbus. Their voices would crack with the weight of thunder drums and their anger would strike the earth in flame and light, striking down those who dare travel too close. However, you can tell from the wind that a thunder storm is still a long ways off. 

You dance among them, the bodies of water that drift endlessly in the open sky, twirling and weaving as though touching one would spell your end (though it is much more likely it would spell theirs). It’s glorious, really, to immerse yourself in a world with no limitations on the direction you can travel and the cloaks of the sky’s children there to protect you. Here and there the clouds become patchy enough for you to see the sky; it is a deep violet, dotted with pinpricks, as though someone had meticulously taken a toothpick and poked a hole through the ever darkening fabric that blanketed the seemingly endless sky that was splayed before you. You spy one of the moons— the green one, you’d never learned its name— as it begins its ascent into the sky, hanging just opposite the sun. It appears as though it’s nestled itself between two craggy mountains at the very edge of the horizon, clinging to them for safety, protection from the dangerous rays of the sun’s light.

Behind you, opposite of where your vision is focused, the sun clings to the last inch of sky it can claim, trying it’s damnedest not to let itself fall to slumber and slip behind the other set of mountains on the opposite horizon. 

It has stayed like this for days now. Or at least, you assume it’s been days; based on the descriptions provided by the people on tumblr, you can assume quite a few hours have passed. 

Still, it is breathtaking. 

A few minutes of fluttering and flitting about (like a lovestruck fairy) pass and you remind yourself of your intended goal; right, right. Figuring out this memory stuff. Time to set to work on that. 

You figure heading towards the sun will only cause you pain. 

Thus, you set your sights on the green moon peeking past the horizon.

Time to try and conjure some sort of memory, some place to begin on your journey for… well, whatever the fuck it is you’re looking for.

You heave a heavy sigh. 

You get the feeling this is going to be a rather long flight. 

A flicker of brown and black rockets through the sky, disappearing as it passes through the pockets of clouds. In a matter of seconds, it vanishes, swallowed by the vast violet dotted with cottony tufts of pale red and pinkish-grey.


	2. ====> RUFIOH: EXAMINE WEIRD TAN THINGY.

Wait.

What?

The fuck is that. 

You spy something on the ground dozens of feet below, glinting faintly in the evening sun. Promising. 

Then, you think back to what it was you’d been thinking of. In hindsight, it probably was useless to think back on the past couple of days, being post-dead and all, but at least you’d found something because of it. To be more specific, you’d been thinking about conversations with people, and most specifically how you’d misplaced your favorite weapon. Hopefully seeing things was a step in the right direction and not your first step towards insanity.

You fly in, hovering a few good feet away, not wanting to get too close in case it was a… oh hey wait a minute it’s your lance! Lance baby I’ve missed you—

You dart forward, a smile breaking out across your face. Sure enough, your favorite lance lies there, dropped among a smattering of wild bluebells and crabgrass. (Bluebells were one of your favorite flowers, might you add.)

You swoop down, landing somewhat shakily. You needed to freshen up on that asap. 

The hilt is worn, bound in straps of leather that are long since overdue to be replaced. The end is capped with a small round orb of sorts, with two curving lines branching off of it in a way; it resembles your name, your symbol, the one so incredibly similar to that of bismuth. The lance itself is dinged and scratched, painted to be a beautiful chocolate umber, much like your blood colour; it’s lacquered polish is fading, and you suppose if you were still alive, you’d take it in to have to repaired (yet again) within the next couple of days.

Good thing you were dead. No need to waste money on weapon repairs any more! Ha ha. fuck.

You swipe at it and pick it up with ease, a groove having formed in the leather from your grasp; it feels comfortable in your hands, cozy, even. You’d missed it. 

Idly you twirl it around, looking it over; you almost wish you could repair it, for it leaves you feeling rather neglectful to see it in such a state. Wait, didn’t they say something about you being able to alter things based on your memories and all that? Well, it was worth a shot.

You continue to twirl it around, whirling it between your fingers and rolling it between your palms. How did it look when it was brand new?

No scratches, that’s for sure. Slowly, you watch them vanish before you. There’s no magical sparkles to special effects as described in books and movies. It’s just… One second they’re there, the next, they aren’t. It’s almost giving you a headache, trying to process the weird visual concept of it all. It’s like trying to understand what it’s like staring into nothingness; all it really does is frustrate you.

The dents and scratches disappear one by one until it looks as though brand new, fresh from the shop; you smile. That’s a lot better. 

What else though? 

Shiny, yeah… Very shiny. 

An image flits across your mind. 

Followed by another.

And another still.

Your train of thought escapes you as you stare blankly at the lance in your hand. 

Shiny…

Shiny with what. 

The crabgrass at your feet withers, crumbling to dust. A wind that passes straight through you springs forth from nowhere, sweeping the grass corpses and husks away; beneath them is a paneling of wood, weathered from years at sea. The trees lose their leaves and their bark shrivels, sharpens, changes their pattern. What was once a natural, fluid growth of curves and swirls becomes a network of angles and hard lines. Bricks. Their bricks. 

The wood expands to a certain point around you, the nearest of trees writhing, lengthening, darkening. Walls of wood rise up on either side, neatly carved holes in them; some of the trees hunker down, appearing as though they are melting into some sort of mass of dead wood. They writhe, wriggle, lash and lengthen. Canons, they become, lining the edges of the wooden floor and poking their noses through the holes. The trees that had been straightening suddenly burst forth, masts breaking from their centers and spilling out into the air. Vines become ropes and leaves become fabric, forming an intricate network that makes up the boom and rope system that belongs to that of a ship. 

It strikes you, then. You’re standing on a ship. 

The ground beyond, previously comprised of crabgrass and onion grass alike, crumbles away, leaving a swirling, foaming mass in its wake. The ocean suddenly pitches you into motion and you stumble, glancing up from your lance for the first real time. The surroundings have changed.

Where there were once trees now stand buildings; rows of docks line the harbor, and here, hundreds of ships are docked, the one you’re standing on just one among many. The ocean beneath your feet is roiling man, frothing as it slams its foamy fingers against the side of the ship in vain; alas, the crew is good at what they do, and the ship will not be moving far from the dock any time soon. 

The docks eventually merge with land, the harbor itself; that is there the buildings reside, as well as dozens of faceless trolls, onlookers apparently stopped as they watch… something. You’re not really sure what. 

In the direction you aren’t looking, the woods crumble away, leaving a wrathful ocean in their wake. A wind whips up from seemingly nowhere, pushing the clouds clear from the sky; they are quickly replaced with much angrier, darker brethren, the kind that lead up the greatest monstrosities of storms. Well, so much for no storms in the near future.

The sky ripples, a drop of dark navy tinting the brilliant violet; it quickly spreads in waves, turning the evening sky into one of night, of comfort. Much better. 

You glance down at your feet… Wait, what?

There, the bluebells remain, sprouted up through the wooden boards that make up the ship’s deck. 

The fuck. 

You kneel, moving your lance to your right hand, just in case. With your left, you reach for one, attempting to pick it. 

Finger tips brush silken petals and the flower bursts on contact, as though of the fragilest of sugar glass. From its veins pours a brilliant azure, splashing over extended fingers. 

You reel back, pulling your hand away; concern suddenly jumps to mind and you glance at your hand, worried— did it burn you? Was it toxic? What did it…

Your heart stops. 

One, two seconds before it beats again. 

Brilliant cerulean blood covers your fingers.

The colour fades from your cheeks, eyes wide with horror. On shaky legs, you stand, unable to tear your eyes away from your hand until—

“… I knew it.” 

The words catch you off guard, and your head snaps up, terror painting an expression of fright in your face. 

She lays there, one arm splayed away from her, the other half-supporting her. Her coat is tattered, tinted with the smattering of azure that surrounds her fairly frail figure. Ebony hair cascades over slender shoulders and down an even more slender back, though where it touches the deck, it is muddied with puddles of cerulean. Her hat is missing, blown away in the gale.

Blood cascades from her gut, and you know, you know with that kind of blood loss she has mere seconds before everything goes dark. 

Panicked, you turn to look at your other hand; cerulean coats your lance, and you instantly cast it away from you, as though burned at the touch. 

She smiles. 

“I pity you, dear…” Mindfang rasps, shaking. Her arm fails her, and suddenly she collapses in a puddle of her own blood, yet still the smile does not leave her face. Aghast, you rush forward, moving to cradle her in your arms; you lift her body— no, she’s too cold, too limp, Mindfang, please, no, don’t do this— and draw her close, pressing her to your chest. She’s breathing. Barely. 

“I knew this… day would come, love.”

Love. 

She’d never called you love before. 

“But you… will live with this the.. rest of your days.” 

The truth of her words strikes a terror in you that you didn’t know was possible. 

“I pity you.. Rufioh…” 

You hear the breath leave her lungs. You watch the light leave her eyes. You watch her life slip away, cradling her in your arms as you are. 

It is then you realise love means nothing, really. 

If it can be declared in your final moments and not spare their life… why love?

You are torn from her. Briefly, it crosses your mind that you may or may not be screaming, agonizing wails coming from your person. You cannot hear them over the sound of the blood in your ears and her words in your head. 

A troll steps forward, one you barely recognize. Right, right, he was the one who’d been attacking the ship. Mindfang’s ship. 

Fury flares within you stronger than it ever has before. 

You aren’t really aware of when you rip out his throat, but a moment or two passes and suddenly, he is dead at your feet. 

Still, you are screaming. 

Finally, the wails taper off into nothing more than choked, brittle sobs. 

When you take flight, the rain begins to trickle down from the heavens, hitting your chest as you fly blindly into the storm. 

No rain would be enough to wash the blood from your hands. 

Oceans would not provide enough water to wash this from you. 

You cradle your head in your hands as you fly, the tears coming at last. 

As the rain soaks you, diluted drops of cerulean drip from your fingers, your arms, falling into the ocean below.

Just another drop of azure in the endless sea of blue.


	3. ====> RUFIOH: QUELL YOUR FURY. WITH MORE FURY.

Though, to be honest, it wasn’t much fury any more as it was an achingly, numbing sorrow that had filled your limbs. Your heart was heavy and your wings weary… Perhaps it was time for a change of scenery. 

Still, the boiling rage that had driven you to murdering the troll back there lingers; it’s both directed at yourself and the world in general. Reliving that was not something you’d really wanted to do. You can feel it numbing your limbs, burning the remaining husk of a heart to nothing more than ashes and embers. You needed something for release— something for revenge.

But, well. You’d already killed the intruder.

Vaguely, you realise you had started all of this with an actual objective in mind. 

Oh, right. You were supposed to be remembering just how you’d died. 

A moment of fear strikes you; you’d almost forgotten that fact, too swept up in the moment of such a horrific memory to remember the fact that it was just that, a memory. You couldn’t lose yourself to these things, could you? 

The sudden looming fear that you might be perpetually lost in these things is enough to set you straight. 

Still, the anger, the fury, how it lingers, burning you into a husk of a man and leaving nothing in its wake but the hollow shell of a troll who’s lost something so dear, so near to his heart, that one could even say it had become his heart itself…

Revenge. You remind yourself of that thought, and you toss it around for a moment or two. Revenge against who? Did it even matter? You wonder who you would pick a fight against if given the chance.

Oh yeah. Duh. 

The waves beneath cease their churning. Onwards you fly with no discretion, letting the wind carry you wheresoever it willed. With mild, empty fascination, you watch the water level itself, choppy waves forming angular blocks. The bricks and cobblestones form before they change colour, but soon, that shift happens as well, a rippling tan and grey filling their grainy surfaces. The ocean on all sides begins to vanish, swallowed whole by this swiftly expanding plane of cobblestone. 

The sky fades to a pale pink, meaning it’s almost day time; the sun is behind you, however, much to your quiet appreciation. 

The storm clouds this time are not gusted away, but rather, vanish behind you as you advance at a breakneck speed. The sky is clear now, and the pink moon dangles over head. A faint scattering of stars is buried in the sky, but the sheer brilliance of the sun has nearly swallowed them up. 

As you fly, the stones begin to ripple, as though invisible fingers are pushing at them from underneath the blanket of stone. Suddenly, buildings spring up from them, cascading showers of stones as they fly from the earth. They shoot up from the ground in a cascade of violent rumblings, the earth visibly trembling; you can feel the vibrations in the air as you fly, sending your wings into a bit of a tizzy. The speed of the buildings surpasses your flying, and you watch as a city rises from the earth before you, rolling forth in a massive wave of rising stone. 

As loosed cobblestones shower on the ones still very much attached to the earth, they flush with colour; from each stone spring something else. They churn, morphing from their hard, rocky exterior into a fluid ball of colour; the ball the stretches, grows, forming any number of things. Booths, vendors, blankets, door ways, windows, awnings, street lamps, even trolls morph from these strange little balls of energy born from cold stone. 

You hardly take notice. 

The buildings grow in size, height, frequency; you find yourself dipping and swerving more than you would like at your current speed, so, reluctantly, you slow down. You’re heading into the heart of the city. You aren’t really sure how you know this, but you do, and right now, you aren’t really one to question it.

Suddenly it strikes you that you don’t remember what you were doing before this. Something to do with… Mindfang? No, that couldn’t be it. She was dead. She’d been dead for almost a sweep now, you knew that. 

Yet an endless rage burns at you, urges you to fly faster despite the sharp turns and angular alleys you have to navigate. 

Your lance is in your hand. You aren’t really sure when it got there, but you aren’t going to question it. 

You can feel it, you’re getting closer, there’s something tugging at you, drawing you forth—

In the center of the town square stands a troll, upon a crude stage built for temporary purposes. His hair is an unruly mass of tangles and knots. It sticks out at all odd angles, defying any sort of logical gravity, but then again, troll hair had a habit of doing that. He’s massive, at least a foot and a half taller than you. His clothes are ragged, dark grey where black has faded from years of wear and tear. The faint stains of every imaginable colour paint his chest and knees mostly. His horns are ridiculously large, almost as ridiculous as the Condesce herself; the trade mark paint marks his face, but even that cannot hide the malicious sneer that is in his features. 

At his feet is a kneeling brownblood, one of your own caste. You feel a pang of terror before the fury engulfs you, swallowing you whole and shaking you to your very core. You cannot fly fast enough. You know this.

A head tumbles away, a fountain of burnt sienna springing from their neck. Their expression remains that of a ghost of horror.

The Grand Highblood laughs.

With a fierce roar you launch yourself at him, and he whirls around, greeting you with a grin that could make death himself stop in his tracks. 

Sweeps of loathing crashes down upon you, coursing through your veins, rushing alongside adrenaline and the ever present fear. You’d long since grown accustomed to Chucklevoodoos and they did little to addle you, but his eyes could stare a man to oblivion, cold and vicious as they were. 

As you charge, he raises a hand. In the brief moment that you’re close enough to deal damage, he swipes at you, and you do what you can to brace yourself. 

Abruptly it feels as though reality slows to a mind numbing crawl; you cannot move fast enough to block the blow, even though you know it’s coming, you know you have enough time to protect yourself. Still, your arms refuse to agree with you. You catch sight of his hands. They’re filthy, with dirt mostly, but you can see crusty flakes of dried blood under his claw-like fingernails, all colours of the spectrum aside from the Condesce and his own. It disgusts you. 

The blow is heavier than you expected, and you’re sent reeling away, crashing into the dirt. This does nothing to deter you. You tuck and roll as best as you can despite being slammed into the earth, folding your wings in the hopes that they would not be too severely damaged; however, this is in vain. One of them is bent beneath you and you cry out, a bright shock of pain searing your spine and blossoming behind your eyes. Your vision wavers as the pain brings tears to your eyes, but you grit your teeth; if nothing else, you were damned determined. 

You spring to your feet, abandoning the approach from the air with a damaged wing, and you swing blindly at him with your lance. Lazily, he swats you away again, this time sending you to his left. You sprawl out on the rough, wooden platform that is the makeshift stage. An infuriated growl rumbles in your chest, transforming into a roar as it rises in your throat, until it bursts from your lips as an angered cry. Again you rise to your feet. Again you charge. 

The sun climbs ever higher, the pale pink of the sky trying to fade into a pale blue as day time begins to settle around you.

This time, you duck, dodging his massive hand. Your lance is swing around, sharpened tip grazing his chest; with some amount of satisfaction you see indigo spurt from a fresh (yet shallow) wound. Your satisfaction would be short lived.

Both hands reach for you this time. They surround you, corner you, eradicating any chance of escape. His grip his crushing, and you’re sure you feel a rib crack as he squeezes you; summoning all of your will power you bite back the cries of agony, the pain nearly driving you to the point of nausea. 

Gruffly you are tosses like a ragdoll through the air; this time, when your figure lands on solid stone, you do not move to rise again. It hurts— it hurts to breathe, fuck, how are you going to get out of this one. Your mind is racing, your fury faltering, survival suddenly becoming that much more important than revenge—

Her shadow approaches you as a slithering shape, her sauntering figure looming over head. You dare not avert your eyes. If this was to be your end, well, so be it, but you were going to face it with a brave face if nothing else. 

“Well well, it would seem the rebellion’s li’l pet decided to pay us a fuckin’ visit,” the Condesce coos. She bends over at the waist, hands on her hips, as she leans forward to look you over. Her hair is a roiling mass behind her, flowing in an unnatural way, as though submerged in water. Her horns Rise from her head, ornately decorated with the jewels of the royals;obnoxiously loud bangles don her wrists and irritatingly distracting chains and jewels encircle her neck. The circlet of the queen is upon her forehead, marked with the crest of her bloodline. 

You think you hear the Highblood’s laughter behind her, but at the moment you can hear little than your heartbeat filling your ears. 

“Shame, that. You would’a made for a fantastic fuckin’ pawn in all’a this.” 

With a snap of her fingers, the crest vanishes, replaced with a symbol you know all too well. 

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck fu

You shove yourself to your feet jerkily, limbs acting on a will of their own

ck fuck fuck fuck fuc

You shuffle a little to the right, grabbing your lance from where it had rolled out of your hand

k fuck fuck fuck f

You take it by the hilt, then turn it around, having to hold onto the middle of it

uck fuck fuck fuck 

The point is aimed perfectly at your chest, and your arms press it forward just enough to break the fabric, a prick of brown pooling at the tip

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuc

“Toodloo, sweet prince of the forest.” Her smile is sickeningly sweet. “Too bad no one is around to miss you any more.”

The cerulean symbol in her circlet is almost enough to bring tears to your eyes. 

Your arms move away from your body, pulling the lance away. 

There isn’t much pain. Your end is a little too swift for that. 

A final thought crosses your mind, as you watch, rapt, as chocolate waterfalls burst from your chest and come to soak your lance. 

Your dear weapon took your love’s life and your own. Ironic, in a sense. 

Cracks form, reality crumbles. The ungainly mass of grey and black and fuchsia before you melts away into the background of violent, flying colours. Everything around you is being torn apart at the seams, much more rapidly than things had changed before; already the city as vanished, and all that’s really left are the shadowy images of the Condesce, the Highblood, and the lance currently piercing your chest. In a flurry of movement, those vanish as well, and you’re pitched into darkness. 

It’s endless. It’s empty. It’s cold. 

You feel as though you’re nowhere and everywhere at once. For a brief moment it registers that you no longer have a body. Just, consciousness, floating in this endlessness. You close your eyes, or at the very least, allow the darkness to swallow your vision as well. 

It’s almost soothing. Not existing, that is. 

The ground rushes up to you so fast you nearly collapse.

You lurch forward, nearly pitching yourself to the floor. Instantly your hands fly to your chest, searching for the gaping hole you knew… wasn’t there? 

You take in your surroundings. Your husktop is still shut down, your couch is where you left it, the chair is still tucked under the desk. Tinkerbull is hovering just near the trap door and he turns around to face you, surprise in his chirps. He acts as though you just left. 

Heavy, shaky foot steps guide you to sit down at your husktop as you reboot it slowly. 

You had a lot to think about.


End file.
